Kiss in the Dreamhouse
by Victoria Squalor
Summary: She had no identity, no past, no life but that in the darkness, until a thief hiding behind a priest's collar stole a kiss and brought her back to life. (Hook/Aurora, Storybrooke!AU)


**A/N:** so I watched _Insidious _with my biffle and then drank half a bottle of Bushmills and then this thing happened. Also, I blame Colin for making such a damn sexy priest. Storybrooke!AU.  
**disclaimer: **I don't own OUAT or any other number of copyrights being currently infringed upon ;)

* * *

**Kiss in the Dreamhouse**

by Victoria Squalor

* * *

She crouched behind the yellow Beetle, her thin paper gown crumpling around her middle, wet asphalt cold and slick beneath her dirty bare feet. She couldn't run very fast when it was raining like this, but they were also less likely to be wandering around outside.

Most of them, anyway.

The man in the cowl with the gold death mask stood a silent vigil outside the pawnshop, as he'd been doing for hours now—not that she was certain of that, beside a clock tower whose hands never moved. Rory's thighs burned and trembled with the effort of staying low, but there was nothing she could do, until he finally went back inside. The Gold Man was too fast. He'd nearly caught her the last time, the rings on his grasping, clawlike hand snagging on her hair before she'd somehow summoned the will and energy to sprint away from him.

Of all the Dark Folk that stalked her night after night—and she supposed there was no discerning between one and the next, for here, it was only ever night, with no promise of the morning ever to follow—he was the most frightening. The Black Queen was sinister in her own right, with her fringe of glossy feathers around a pointed beak of a mask, and her languid, catlike grace as she strode toward Rory, sharpened blood-red nails extended, beckoning for that which she would not give willingly. The Dragon Lady was a more familiar presence, one she felt as if she'd run from all her life, but no friendlier; her ominous smile barely discernible between her half-mask, the thick curved horns protruding from her head that dipped toward Rory with every tilt of her chin.

But the Gold Man scared her the most, and she was never certain why. Perhaps because he seemed so frail, yet so confident of himself. So capable of things she dared not imagine.

Rory clamped her hands over her nose and mouth as she exhaled deeply, not wanting the sudden sound to give away her position. She'd duck behind the little car for as long as she had to. She'd sought refuge in worse places, in more cramped positions, time and time again, but no matter what, she could not let them touch her. _They'll take all that's left of me. They'll take _over _me. And then I have no way of getting home._

She no longer truly believed she would ever get home, wherever that was. She assumed she must at one point have had a family: parents, and perhaps even a man who loved her; but all record of that was gone. She knew only the Dark World now, and its subtly ever-changing landscapes—the storefronts that changed signs, the evolving roster of cars parked at the curb that shifted position every time she ventured outside. The Beetle itself was a fairly new addition, though for all she knew, it had never been driven or explicitly parked there. It had simply appeared one day, a yellow siren in the dank fog.**  
**  
Her hair was matting together in the soupy weather, strung with thick beads of moisture that dripped down between her shoulder blades. Rory closed her eyes as she felt a cold rivulet hit the small of her back, her breath thin and shallow as she tried not to recoil from the discomfort.

When she opened them, the Gold Man was standing over her, raindrops sliding down his mask.

Rory screamed, a high shrill sound ripped from her throat that she barely heard as she swiveled on the balls of her feet and lost her balance. She had no time to feel the pain in her now shredded knees, slick with dirt and blood as she scrambled back upright and ran as fast as she could toward the nearest building. _Please, please, don't let there be anyone in there, _she prayed frantically, to a god she knew couldn't possibly hear her from this desolate place. _Please help me._

And then she saw the priest.

* * *

Killian Jones, or "Father James", as he was currently styling himself with his pilfered priestly collar and neatly combed hair, emerged from Mr. Whittington's room with a casual, easy stride and a somber smile on his face, for the benefit of the nurses' station nearby. Prosthetic hand in one pocket. Several credit cards and some very expensive diamond cufflinks in the other. And no one the wiser.

The senile old fart hadn't given the slightest notice to the fact that the holy man who'd come to pray for his speedy recovery was cleaning him out. He'd been too busy babbling to the air about his cat, and how many mice it had caught last week—clearly, he had no concept of how long he'd been in the hospital. He almost felt sorry for the clueless geezer, until he remembered the ultimatum Gold had leveled against him. _Either you scrounge up the rest of what you owe me, or I cut the other one off. _

He had no intention of giving that slimy bastard the satisfaction. But he had no other choice. He hadn't been able to push enough Spindle that week to cover his dues, even with both Smee and Jukes hitting the pavement for him. They'd been pushing it as a simple sleeping aid and relaxant, but apparently word had gotten out about its more_ detrimental _side effects, and sales had dropped off significantly. He was going to have to branch out into other avenues at this rate. Being a petty drug runner had never been his goal in life, anyway; he'd always felt he was destined for grander things.

_What things_, though, he wasn't entirely sure of, as of yet.

The pebbly faux-leather cover of the small Bible in his right hand was growing slick with sweat, from being clutched so tightly. He suppressed the urge to bolt out of there before any of these idiots got wise to his scheme—none of them looked particularly sharp anyway, save that one blond doctor who strode about the place, eyeing all the nurses as if he were appraising the value of their body parts. _Creepy bastard. _He could probably fit in one or two more hapless victims before strolling out of there, he figured, and headed toward the coma ward.

There was a figure poised in the doorway of the first room he saw, a small woman in a twinset with dark hair shorn in an unflattering pixie cut, one he was certain he'd seen around town, staring forlornly into the room. Shrugging, he stepped up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Ma'am?"

"Oh—Father," she gasped, turning abruptly and stopping as she focused on his collar. "I'm…I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were there."

Killian offered her his best beatific smile. "No, I apologize for frightening you. I don't believe we've met. I'm Father James, and you?"

"Uh—Mary Margaret. Blanchard." She smiled at him with relief, extending her hand to shake. He was careful to keep his own phony one in his coat pocket. "When, ah, did you come to Storybrooke, Father? I don't think I've seen you at the school…"

_Shit. _"Oh, I'm brand new," Killian wheedled through his teeth, hoping she'd buy it without question. "I've been trying to get acquainted with the town. I thought I'd come and pray awhile for some of these poor unfortunate souls." He glanced past her into the room. On the hospital bed lay a young woman with her eyes shut tight, waves of chestnut hair spilling over her pillow. _Pretty little thing, _he thought absently, _bit of a waste to have her lying there like that. _"Who's this?"

Mary Margaret's smile grew sad. "Nobody knows. She's just Jane Doe. Lying here unclaimed as long as I can remember. I come in to brush her hair once in awhile, give her a touch of lip gloss…there's no reason she can't still look her best, you know?" Her mouth crumpled a bit. "I suppose that sounds silly…"

"Oh, no, not at all," Killian reassured her, glancing at the girl again. It was strange, but sleep somehow agreed with her; her cheeks and lips were rosy pink, although that might have been due to Mary Margaret's help, but her features were relaxed and serene, as if the dreamworld she dwelt in were free of all worry and strife. "I…I'd like to pray for her awhile, Miss Blanchard, if that's all right."

"Of course. I…should be checking on our John Doe, actually." Mary Margaret blushed, and ducked out of the room before Killian could respond, leaving him alone with "Jane".

He crossed over to her bedside, examining her face more closely, now seeing the tiny, barely perceptible twitches of her closed eyelids and lips. _What do you dream of?_ he wondered, forgetting all about scavenging in her bedside table drawer for discarded jewelry. _Scoundrels like me? Or something more sinister?_

Her skin was smooth and pale as porcelain; he couldn't help but draw a fingertip along her cheekbone, although he felt like a filthy scumbag for doing it. Still, it couldn't stop the odd urge that welled up inside him, the feeling of…_need. _Need to be close to her, closer than he was even now.

He traced his fingertip slowly along her lower lip, and marveled at how her mouth puckered slightly in its wake, responding to his touch.

"Do you want a kiss?" he heard himself murmur, the sound almost drowned out by the beating of his own heart.

* * *

The man with the priest collar disappeared inside the darkened hospital, and Rory followed.

She hadn't gotten a good look at his face, but all that mattered was that she could _see _it. He wore no mask, so he couldn't be one of the Dark Folk trying to claim her soul. In all her time dwelling in this shadow realm, she'd never seen another uncovered face. _He's come to help me, _she thought, her heart giving a sudden leap. _He heard my prayer. He's here to save me, I know it. _

She had no thought to spare for the dried blood streaking her legs, or the rawness of the soles of her feet as she pushed through the smudged glass door and into the dark hospital lobby. The reception desk was littered with papers and debris, the floor tracked with filth, some of which was probably her own doing. She could make out nothing lurking in the miasma of darkness beyond.

"Father?" she called out, her voice strangely high and crystalline. _Father, Father, come take me away from here! _But the only response was only the echo of her voice, and the dripping of a ceiling leak.

And the steady pounding on the door she'd just come through.

The Gold Man stood just outside, fist raised to the glass, staring at her with his empty black eyes.

Rory didn't bother to scream this time. She sprinted into the blackness, occasionally banging into the sharp edge of a gurney in the hallway and recoiling in pain, but not stopping. "_Father!"_ she cried. "_Father, help me!"_

She strained to hear anything at all over the oppressive silence, when a man's voice finally cut through the void. _"I promise."_ Small, hollow, distant, but _so close._ She followed it into a room, and slammed the door behind her.

* * *

Killian glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder, hoping no well-meaning orderly would bustle in to change the sheets before returning his attention to his Jane Doe. She was perfect, really, he mused somewhat wistfully. Perfect bone structure in her face, perfect arches for eyebrows, perfect Cupid's bow upon her lips.

Lips fairly begging to be kissed.

_This is insane, _he told himself, trying to reason with this suddenly overly hormonal side of himself. _You can have any woman you want, with quite minimal effort at that. You don't need to be coming on to girls in coma wards. Besides, you came here to _steal _from these people, not make out with them._

He stroked his fingertips along the side of her face. Was it his imagination, or was she starting to stir?

"I promise," he heard himself say, and was forced to repeat it as his thoughts began to stumble, "I promise I won't steal from you. Except…this one thing."

* * *

"Do you trust me?" the priest asked.

Rory squinted. The light coming from the bedside lamp was feeble, but it was light, and it was enough to illuminate his form. Dark-haired, extremely handsome…but, oh, his _eyes. _Rory had never seen such eyes. Crystal-clear blue, they gripped her own gaze tighter than a vise.

Was it wise to trust him? Who cared? He wasn't one of the Dark Folk; that was all that really mattered. And she would say anything, _anything _to keep those eyes on her, just one more moment…

"Yes," she said. "Of course."

He reached toward her with one hand, the other one staying fast in his pocket. She took it.

* * *

Killian lowered his face and gently pressed his lips to hers, marveling at the warmth, at the slight suction that resulted as he reluctantly pulled away.

"…going to head out as soon as my rounds are over," a male voice wafted down the hallway. "I've got to meet someone at Granny's."

_Oh, hell, not that creepy doctor again. _He straightened up abruptly, hoping the fresh flush on his face wouldn't give him away before he had a chance to get out of there. "Sorry to leave you this way, princess," he whispered as he backed toward the door, "but perhaps we'll meet again someday."

* * *

His hand closed over hers, and the world fell away.

The darkness peeled away in layers, like the thin membranes of an onion; all the grunge and dank of the surrounding room stripped away, followed by the very walls themselves. And behind them, only blinding white light. Rory could neither cry nor scream, her lungs tight and airless. She could only watch helplessly, arm outstretched, as the light swallowed her priest too, devouring him whole and leaving her adrift in a featureless void.

And then, like a rubber band, everything snapped back.

She was lying in a bed beneath a pile of stiff blankets, staring up at a dull beige ceiling. The room was filled with warm lighting, a cheerful squat lamp on the bedside table and a vase of purple chrysanthemums next to it. She tried to breathe in, but the effort of drawing it, in huge, ragged gasps that wracked her small body, caused her limbs to flail and knock over the lamp. The heart monitor began to beep rapidly. She couldn't draw in enough air, and now her vision was darkening again. _No. No. I can't. I must…I…_

"Father," she gasped before her vision went black.


End file.
